


Time Passes By

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:11:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember, in "Vendetta", the manure in the living room?  Yeah, like Blair doesn't get enough shit from Jim.  Will he ever receive roses?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Passes By

## Time Passes By

by Jantique

Pet Fly having abandoned them, Jim and Blair, like Lincoln, now belong to the ages.   


Send praise, criticism and FEEDBACK! to the author at Jantique1020@hotmail.com   


The missing scenes from "Vendetta, during and just after the episode ended.   


This story is a sequel to: PROLOGUE to the "Love While We're Here" series. 

* * *

**TIME PASSES BY**

by Jantique 

Ellison was definitely out of line. Okay, he had a little "road rage". He never should have pulled the guy out of his car, and he positively never should have shown him his ID. But how was he to know the guy was a homicidal maniac, and would start stalking him? _Way_ overreaction, man. 

And maybe it wasn't too smart for me to leave an extra key above the door. But, I mean, this lunatic would have picked the lock or shot it out or something, right? I don't think that was really my fault. 

So anyway, we come home, and there is a pile of _manure_ on the coffee table, gracefully spilling over onto the couch, the floor, you name it. Now, piece for piece, horse manure isn't nearly as gross as, say, doggie doo-doo. But when you have a ton or two of it in your living room. . . . 

Like Jim always says, it's his loft, right? Not that I wanted manure in the house, but this was definitely a chore we should have _shared_. But he's on a case, undercover as a safecracker, getting in tight with the thieves. So he leaves, keeping the city safe, and who get to clean up the mess? Yours truly. I'm not going to get into details, but I used shovels, mops, rags, disinfectant, scouring powder, brooms, more disinfectant, and I would _never_ admit this to Ellison, but I used a toothbrush to clean in-between the cracks. Called Sears to steam clean the furniture and rugs, and made them do it twice. Threw away all the cleaning utensils I used and the clothing I was wearing. Tons of room spray. (I knew it would give Jim a smell overload, but better than the alternative.) Left the windows open for hours, and it was _cold_. (No, I did NOT turn on the fan! Don't say it.) 

After all this, he comes home, looks around and says, "Good job, Chief." Of course, you have to know how to interpret what he says. What he _meant_ was, "Thanks for cleaning up; I know it was a lot of work. I appreciate it." It was all right there in "Good job", except for the last part. I knew he meant, "I appreciate it" when he said "Chief", not "Sandburg". Ah, I live for compliments. (Okay, maybe that's a little cynical. I know he can't let me--or anyone--too far inside his emotional personal space. He wouldn't be able to handle it. I can respect that--well, I can live with it. Like I have a choice.) 

Eventually, he cracks the case, nearly getting killed again, courtesy of the aforementioned lunatic, but it's over. Until the next case. Simon sends him home and I head back to my office to do all my University paperwork (as opposed to police paperwork). I have a couple of granola bars for dinner while I'm grading papers and, because it's been a rough week and I think I owe it to myself, I sneak a Ghirardelli bar, dark chocolate with raspberries. Mmm!! (Never admit that to Jim, either. But then, _that_ list is endless.) 

Finally, I head home. Knock, no answer. Open the door, and for a split second I think the lunatic has struck again. The couch, the floor, everything is covered with--rose petals? Pink, red, white, yellow, _rose petals_! Hundreds, maybe thousands of petals everywhere. I shake my head. They're beautiful, and the scent is delicate. (Well, for Jim it could be overwhelming. For me, it's perfect.) 

"Jim?" No answer. I _carefully_ walk up the stairs, which are likewise festooned, but he's not there either. His bed is covered with petals, mostly yellow and pink. Hmm. I gingerly walk back down, trying not kick all the petals off the stairs or slip and break my neck. I check my bed. No, they stop at my doorway. Just a couple of stray petals drifting into my room, that's all. Well, I might as well take advantage of the opportunity. I flop down on the couch (primarily pink and white). The petals are soft, silken. I rub one against my cheek. Jim would have a field day tactilely on this. It occurs to me: Jim will have a _fit_. I see "beautiful"; he'll see "mess". Should I guess who gets to clean it all up? Although cleaning _this_ will be a pleasure. It's a pity, but he won't appreciate the thoughtfulness of whoever--who _did_ do this, anyway? I can't think of any likely candidates. Maybe someone from his past. 

Then I see the note folded on the coffee table, standing up, in a pile of fragrant red petals. No wonder I didn't see it at first--it doesn't stand a chance against the roses. It says "Blair" on the front. Jim's hand, careful, flowing script. Inside it says, "I know I didn't thank you properly for cleaning the manure. I could say I was busy or distracted, but the truth is, everything looked normal, so I didn't think about it. You give my life order out of chaos. The first test you gave me was smelling the roses. I should do that more often. I'd like to make it up to you, not for just this, but for everything you do for me. Jim" 

Wow! This is amazing! I don't know how to take it. This whole scene is utterly romantic--therefore, it _cannot_ be from Jim Ellison. Maybe it's his idea of a joke? Doesn't sound like a joke. Maybe he means--what _does_ he mean, and where the hell _is_ he?! Did he chicken out at the last second? But that's not him, either. I can see him sitting glassy-eyed in a cold sweat. But not to turn and run, that's not who the man _is_. 

//If it is romantic, if it means what it looks like--how do I respond to that? I always wondered what we'd be like together. But if he can't be open, if he shut me out after _that_ , I couldn't bear it. Fantasize: Jim sitting here next to me, and we--to hell with fantasy! WHERE IS HE?!// 

I read the note again, turning it over and over. Then I see on the back, written hurriedly, "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." 

I smile and lean back. I'm not going anywhere. This could be the beginning of a beautiful--what? Have to wait and see. I can hardly wait. 
    
    
            Dreams drift away like petals on the water,
            They roll down the river and slip out of sight.
            Too many times, we do what we ought,
            Put off 'til tomorrow what we'd really rather do tonight,
            And later realize
    
            Time passes by, people pass on, 
    At the drop of a tear, they're gone.
            Let's do what we dare, do what we like,
            And love while we're here, before time passes by.
    
            ~~ to be continued ~~
    

"Time Passes By" by Jon Vezner and Susan Longacre. I changed one word, so sue me. From the "Time Passes By" album by Kathy Mattea. 

  * THE END * 



* * *

End Time Passes By by Jantique: Jantique1020@hotmail.com

Author and story notes above.

  
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